


Clairvoyance

by Ladybug_21



Category: Broadchurch, Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Gen, I Have No Idea How This Even Makes Sense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:02:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23844913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladybug_21/pseuds/Ladybug_21
Summary: Two questionable psychics—one of whom allegedly helped solve a murder, one of whom incontrovertibly helped avert an Apocalypse—have opened up a fortune-telling enterprise together in Broadchurch.DI Hardy, sporting dark sunglasses and walking with a decidedly squiggly gait, is less than amused.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	Clairvoyance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ghostly_Business](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghostly_Business/gifts).



> Yeah, I really don't even know how this all works, but you're welcome, Ghostly_Business, for yet another narrative take on [Olivia Colman](https://i.pinimg.com/600x315/16/5d/b0/165db06f00fbc353718011226873d9e7.jpg) as the world's most precious little Aziraphale? I do not own the rights to _Broadchurch_ or to _Good Omens_.

"We've been asked to investigate what?" Miller said, taking another bite of a truly delicious Scotch egg.

"You remember Steve Connelly, from the Danny Latimer case?" Hardy wrinkled his nose, scowling behind his dark sunglasses. "He's decided to make a go at fortune-telling as a career. Apparently has teamed up with some other charlatan down from London, who's decamped here for the summer season. And it's up to us to go shut them down."

Miller took a sip of cocoa from a little angel-winged mug before standing. But in the amount of time it had taken to accomplish this, Hardy was already halfway out the door, his long legs and hips seemingly unable to coordinate correctly with each other.

"Sir? Hey!" Miller rushed after the DI. "Slow down for half a minute, will you? Get thee behind me, foul fiend!"

"What?" Hardy turned to face his DS, his expression halfway between confusion and disgust.

"After you," Miller sighed, holding the door.

To make things all the more distasteful, the would-be psychics had taken over the old Sea Brigade Hall. Hardy made a typically disgruntled face as he took in the gaudy new signs in the windows—blaringly pink letters on fuchsia background, clip art of crystal balls, and Comic Sans font, to boot. That, in and of itself, seemed like enough to warrant a criminal charge.

"Miller," muttered Hardy, "maybe you'd better go in first."

"What, just so you don't do anyone physical harm over their terrible taste in graphic design?" Miller replied, following the general direction of Hardy's eyes (the dark sunglasses necessitated much inexact guesswork).

"Because Steve Connelly doesn't think he's got any past personal revelations to dangle over your head," sniffed Hardy, remembering all of those comments about the pendant, and his having been to Broadchurch before, and most of all the bloody stupid bloody boat. "Best for you to preface everything without him standing there, gloating. In you go."

Miller tentatively pushed open the door and peered inside. The current occupants of the hall had blocked the high windows with dark curtains, so that most of the light in the room came from a glowing crystal ball on a table in the centre of the space.

"Hello, dear!" said an extremely cheerful female voice, and a hand seized Miller under the elbow. "Welcome, welcome, lovely to see you... séance for just one today, then, or did you have anyone meeting you?"

"Oh, no, sorry, I'm not here for..." Miller began, turning to face the woman.

The mountebank psychic had violently coloured hair and wore layers upon layers of absurdly drapey clothing, not to mention an impressive amount of makeup for a woman her age. But upon seeing Miller's face, she gasped and clasped her hands excitedly.

"Mr Aziraphale!" she exclaimed. "Now, you're the very last person I expected to see here in Broadchurch. Session is free of charge, then, love—although I dare say you need _me_ to read your fortune like you need a tropical fish to lace your trainers!"

"Sorry, what?" Miller said, unsuccessfully puzzling through this simile.

"Steve, dear!" the woman called over her shoulder. "We have a very special visitor!"

"What did you call me?" Miller finally managed.

"Mr Aziraphale, isn't it?" The psychic beamed. "Or my name isn't Madame Tracy! Which it isn't, technically, of course, but let's leave that aside. Ooh, my Shadwell won't _believe_ it when I tell him you waltzed in here. Haven't got any more nipples on you than before, have you? Would _really_ brighten his day, if you said yes."

"Excuse me?!" gasped Miller, more astonished than even offended.

Fortunately, Steve Connelly had just appeared, and Miller, deciding that it was easier to confront the bizarre known than the highly bizarre unknown, pulled away from Madame Tracy and stalked over to him.

"Steve Connelly, having received reports of your recent attempts at fraud for profit, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to come over to the station for..."

But Steve was staring at Miller, slack-jawed.

"You all right?" Miller asked, nonplussed.

"It's just, I've never been directly in the presence of..." Steve exhaled and stuffed his hands into his pockets. "You _know_ him, Madame Tracy?"

"Well, I wouldn't say we _know_ each other, do we, love?" Madame Tracy said, wrapping an arm around Miller's shoulders. "Although I can't imagine a whole lot that's more intimate than sharing the same body for a few solid hours prior to averting the Apocalypse, can you?"

" _Excuse me_ ," repeated Miller, shrugging off Madame Tracy's arm aggressively—bloody Hell, what _was_ all this?! "Right, you're both coming with me, we've got a lot of questions to ask you about your recent bogus enterprise..."

"Miller?" Hardy had appeared at the door of the hall and lounged silhouetted in its frame. "What in the name of Heaven is _taking_ you so long, Miller?!"

"And if it isn't Mr Crowley, but of course!" cried Madame Tracy, overwhelmed. "Absolutely wonderful to see you both. Might not want to step inside, though, love. Hall used to be a church. Might burn your feet, if there's any holiness still embedded in the floor."

Hardy frowned, glanced through his sunglasses at the ground, then glanced back up at Madame Tracy.

"I don't know what you two think you're playing at," he said in a low voice, "but we've received word that you've defrauded numerous good citizens of this town of their hard-earned wages, and I'm warning you, if you do not put an end to this quackery immediately, then so help me, I will make you sorely regret that either of you ever set foot in Broadchurch."

"Oh, no trouble, then, love, we'll clear out!" said Madame Tracy jovially. "Mister S's getting a bit anxious, as it is. Keeps shouting at locals on the beach, asking them if they're witches. One of them just about sicced her dog on him, when he was investigating and got too close to her caravan. Getting home to London will do him some good, mark my words."

Hardy watched critically as Madame Tracy collected the crystal ball on the table, along with several decks of tarot cards and a bundle of star charts.

"That goes for you, too," Miller added to Steve. "No more of all this. No more talking to Beth Latimer. Consider leaving Broadchurch altogether, if you know what's good for you."

"Well," stammered Steve, "of course I will, who am I to question the Word?" But as he headed for the door, he turned back towards Miller. "They're still angry, you know."

"Who and why?" sighed Miller impatiently.

"All of the people whose lives you could have saved," Steve explained gravely. "If only you had been more interested in justice than in crêpes."

Miller watched, bewildered, as Steve slouched past Hardy and out the door of the hall. Hardy, his arms crossed and his back aligned against the doorframe in an odd, twisty manner, watched Steve depart.

"That's the lot, then," announced Madame Tracy, dumping the offensively bright signs into the top of a large cardboard box in which she had already deposited the rest of her trappings. "We'll leave on the first train tomorrow. So good to see both of you, it really is. Take care of yourselves, won't you—and _do_ come over for tea sometime, Mr Aziraphale knows the address."

And Madame Tracy threw her free arm around Miller and subjected the bewildered DS to a noisy lipsticked kiss on one cheek, before bustling off with her box, leaving the two bewildered police officers staring after her.

"Can that be prosecuted as assault, sir?" asked Miller, after finally recovering from the shock of being kissed by a complete stranger.

Hardy responded by detaching himself from the doorframe and sauntering slowly back towards the police car.

"Well," Miller added, increasingly chipper as the surprise wore off, "that was quicker than expected, sir, wasn't it? No need for any questioning or coercion..."

"Miller," growled Hardy, as he usually did when he felt that his partner was getting too chatty.

"Just saying, we've probably earned ourselves a reward for a speedy job well done, before heading back to the station."

"Like?" groaned Hardy, steeling himself for something far too bloody happy and, knowing Miller, undoubtedly food-related.

Miller closed the car door and, after a moment, turned expectantly to Hardy.

"What would you say to some crêpes?"

**Author's Note:**

> Also, apropos of literally nothing, I just discovered [this photo](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/62/a4/01/62a4012dd0dc4cf23cc7241b156dfc58.jpg), and my friend and I laughed hysterically and quickly decided that this is basically what it would look like if Crowley sans sunglasses were airdropped into the middle of Season 2 of _Broadchurch_. (Best evidence: As my friend pointed out, Arthur Darvill looks totally done with this situation, and of course a vicar would be unimpressed by a demon posing like this.) Although we all know that, if Crowley *actually* were dropped into this courthouse mid-trial, he would pressure Aziraphale into miracling a life sentence for Joe Miller, and then Aziraphale and Ellie Miller would go eat cake together.


End file.
